


Bleeding Bad Memories

by variableIntroversion



Series: After The End Of The World [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Bro isn't an asshole in this au, Cuddling, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt and comfort, Not Epilogue Compliant, PTSD, Post-Sburb, References to Character Death, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-06 00:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21217793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variableIntroversion/pseuds/variableIntroversion
Summary: You're still not really okay with blood.





	Bleeding Bad Memories

You're still not really okay with blood. To an embarrassingly uncool degree, if you're being honest. You hate how it's warm, hate knowing that it's like that because it was just inside a living person. You hate how it gets sticky, how it stains things, how it leaves a mark. You hate knowing that it means something went wrong; and maybe your perspective is just fucked after SBURB, but to you, blood means someone is dead. And if not dead, then dying.

You know that's not really the case. Your nosebleed last week didn't mean you were about to keel over. Bro's split lip didn't mean he just scraped himself out of a fight that could have been the end (again. It would be again, for him.) The thin line of red on your thumb doesn't mean you just got incredibly lucky in a fight, that you could have lost hold of your weapon, that you were that close to losing a lot more. It means you cut yourself chopping a fucking carrot for stir fry, and you should really stop bleeding on the cutting board and clean yourself up.

And maybe throw out the bloody carrot pieces and get a new cutting board.

And put down the knife. Yeah, definitely put down the knife.

You put it down like it might bite you of its own accord, and try to remember how legs work.

The blood is oozing into your palm now, following the creases like miniature rivers. You numbly tip your hand, hating the way it pools, and it drips down your fingers. Suddenly though, it isn't just a small cut. Suddenly you aren't in your kitchen, you're on LOFAF, and it isn't a cut on your thumb but a hole in your chest, a hole in your stomach, a gouge in your shoulder. You can't breathe, and you can't tell if it's because your lungs are filling up (hot, sticky, thick red liquid, much worse than water to drown in because it will coalesce, congeal, cling to your insides until you're painted red and suffocating on it), or because you just don't know how to make yourself inhale.

You aren't sure if you taste copper or bile until you're hunched over the kitchen sink and feel the acid burning the back of your throat. You squeeze your watering eyes shut so tight that a couple tears trickle out and fall onto your shades, where they sit cradled by black plastic as you shudder and heave. It's hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to focus on much of anything beyond your clashing desires to empty your stomach completely and stop puking right this instant.

You think you might sob, but you can't tell if it's just a violent attempt at breathing or not. You definitely do lose a few more tears, by the time you've puked up breakfast and lunch, and by then you're feeling too wrecked to really care.

When something warm lands on your back, your first instinct is _more blood_ and you startle. But blood can't press against you, and it definitely can't rub circles. You recognize Bro's hand as soon as the initial panic passes, and you feebly lean into the contact like a baby bird that's hungry for comfort. Your body shudders again, convulses two more times, but nothing else comes out of you other than a choked gasp and an ugly retching sound.

"Easy, easy." Bro murmurs, quiet and steady beside you. "You got it all out?"

You nod, dizzy but not sure exactly why. You don't see the warm, wet paper towel coming until Bro's already swiped it across your mouth, cleaning up snot, spit, and sick. When he tries pulling you back from where you've braced yourself on the counter, you stumble a bit and give up on walking, let yourself float and drift wherever he wants you. He sits you down on the futon and rubs another wet paper towel against your hand. You arbitrarily shiver at the warmth and try not to think about what he's cleaning up.

He leaves again, briefly. You stare at the floor blankly, listening to the sound of running water and cupboard doors, until Bro appears back in your field of view. One of his hands is holding a glass of water, but the other one, empty, lifts to cup your cheek. You tilt your head up compliantly when he moves it, until you can see his face, see the worry lines even with his shades in place.

"You with me?" He asks it quietly, like raising his voice might shatter something. You wish you could feel indignant about it, but right now you're just grateful. Quiet voices mean lack of urgency, means you're safe. You give a nod and get one back, then Bro gently presses the edge of the glass to your lips.

That, at least, you try to handle yourself. You reach up to take it in both hands, but only one gets there. He's caught the wrist of your right hand, and you almost choke on your first sip when you remember why. You blink quickly and will away the moisture in your eyes, try to focus instead on just drinking as much of the water as possible so you can stop tasting bile.

He takes care of your hand once you're done. You don't watch a second of it, but you know the song and dance. Disinfect, bandage, put the kit away. Instead of the last part, Bro sits next to you. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, tucking you against him like a mother hen. You curl up so you fit better, compensating for the height you've gained over the past few months.

It feels like you sit there together in silence for a long time before you start dragging yourself out of your stupor. Nineteen minutes, if you're being precise, but you don't really want to be. Your freakishly accurate internal clock is just another reminder of what you are and what you've done. Been through. Whatever.

You force yourself to sit up straighter, even if that baby bird part of you doesn't want to move away from the safe warmth of Bro's side. His arm is still around you at least, so it's not a complete loss.

"You good?" Bro asks it quietly. You still appreciate how soft he's making his voice for you. You still resent it. You almost wince at your own voice when you force yourself to answer at a normal volume.

"Yeah, peachy. Doing great, actually. Think I'll finish making dinner and everything, gotta fill up after a good old fashioned puke-fest." You stand abruptly and immediately regret it, but cover up your dizzy spell by simply floating the short distance between the futon and the kitchen.

Your flippancy dissolves when you see the cutting board. It's stained red, even more so than the knife that started this whole mess. The carrots are a lost cause, and you've not only lost your appetite a second time, but you're hit with a second wave of nausea. Your hands are shaking so badly when you pick everything up that you think you might accidentally cut yourself again.

Bro seems to think so too, because he practically materializes at your side to pluck the board and knife away. He examines the mess for a moment, then stares at you for twice as long. You stare back and fail at seeming perfectly chill, because you don't even need to look at yourself to know that you've somehow gone even paler than usual.

"The blood?" He's asking, but it sounds like he's already figured it out and just looking for confirmation. You don't look at him when you nod. It makes sense, to the point where you know it's easily justifiable, but it still makes you feel unreasonably childish. You're the Knight of Time, whether you want to be or not. Blood shouldn't make you even blink, but here you are getting literally sick at the sight of it.

The sound of the knife on the cutting board as Bro scrapes all the carrots into the trash makes your hair stand on end. You drift a couple feet back without really meaning to, and you can't bring yourself to move closer afterwards. Your eyes wander over the floor, counting the tiles as you listen to water running in the sink. Slowly, they make a path upwards, until you're looking at the rest of the knives and trying to decide whether or not you can hold one steady enough to safely chop anything.

"Nope." Bro's arm is suddenly gently clothes-lining you, pulling you along like some kind of meaty helium balloon. You don't splutter, but you purse your lips and give him as unimpressed a look as possible. You've got some dignity to maintain, but he just snorts in the face of it. "We're ordering in tonight."

On principal, you want to argue. On another principal, you never turn down takeout. So you sigh and nod, draping yourself onto the futon since you've been literally dragged to it. Bro sits on your legs like the asshole he is, and you take great satisfaction at nearly throwing him onto the floor when you move them out from under him. It's gonna be a sad day when he actually gets used to the inhuman strength godhood's given you.

"I should order Mexican for that." He grumbles, giving your legs a solid shove so they hang off the futon long enough for him to actually sit on it. You put them in his lap, petulant, then nearly shriek when he grabs your foot and wiggles his fingers along the underside of it. When his nails drag feather-light against the arch, you shoot into the air and curl into a human egg to the tune of his laughter.

"I should kick you out for that." You say - grumble back, really - as you cautiously drift back down. Bro looks all too pleased with himself, the smug bastard, but you don't risk kicking at him. No, you're going to stay on the opposite side of the couch and glower, even as he makes a show of pulling out his phone and dialing up your favorite pizza place.

"Nah, you're too much of a masochist to do that." You'd bet on every boonbuck you own that he winked behind his shades, but you don't get a chance to snark back as he begins chatting with some employee. As soon as that's finished, he tosses his phone into his Sylladex and snags the remotes, waggling one in front of your face. "Disney binge?"

You scoff lightly to hide how much you appreciate the offer of some nice, blood-free G films. The corner of your mouth betrays you by twitching up a little. "This is just an excuse to watch Tangled again, isn't it?"

"It's got a sword fighting horse. Objectively, that makes it the best Disney movie to ever hit the market." Bro answers you with all the confidence of a seasoned connoisseur of furry media. It takes a bit more than usual not to laugh as you roll your head with your eyes. That damn smile of yours is a lost cause, but it's probably for the best that you give him some sign that you aren't judging him too harshly for his unironic love of animated horses.

"Sure, fine. At least you aren't gonna go off about how ridiculous a kismesissitude between a horse and a human is."

Bro lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at you.

"You really need to stop watching movies with trolls."

"No way, troll movie night is the shit. The commentary is comedy gold so long as nobody lets Karkat go too far down quadrant avenue. He so much as takes a gander at that ramble road, you have to derail him before he picks up steam. He's like a conversational juggernaut, once he really gets going you can't shut him up."

"Gee, can't imagine what that's like." Bro's voice is flat enough that if you were anyone else, you'd cringe at the jab. You, however, are not anyone else, and you retaliate with a one-fingered salute and a huff.

"Fuck you, my tangents have a fine variety of whatever-the-shit, carefully spiced with metaphors and simmered to perfection in the fires of irony."

"I can tell." Bro chuckles. You scowl at him behind your shades, but it's all play and no heat.

The ensuing silence is comfortable, natural. Bro cues up Tangled and you both get settled, ready to spend the evening on bloodless movies and junk food. Some time after dinner, you wind up back at his side. His arm hangs over your shoulders like a perfect habit and your folded legs lean propped up against his, slotted in place like a jigsaw puzzle. You're lucky, you think, that he's so cool with being close like this. You're lucky to have him at all.

"Hey, Bro." You mumble, attention split as much as his is between watching and conversing.

"Mm?"

"Thanks."

He grunts again, softly and just once, before squeezing you around the shoulders. You don't need him to speak to know what he meant. You press harder against him to say it back, and you know he understands just as well as you do. Neither of you have ever had to say 'I love you' out loud to know you both mean it.


End file.
